


you drive me fucking crazy, I mean insanely

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940's, Bucky is a saint, Comfort Food, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sick Steve Rogers, and I didn't kill anyone off or make them mercilessly pine, just let him love you Steve, mother hen bucky, somebody give me a hi5 - I wrote a HAPPY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8154548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: Steve stands and nearly topples over. "Last I checked, he didn't put you in charge. I can take care of myself.""Oh yeah? Let go of the bed then."Steve white knuckles the covers and glares. Yeah, that's what Bucky thought."In bed, now. I'm making soup."Steve huffs like a scorned child but curls up on the bed anyway and stuffs Bucky's pillow under his head. He can steal every measly blanket and pillow they have lying around, hell he can take the tablecloth if he wants, as long as he stays put.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanna eat you like not a vulture… a swan  
> I wanna eat you like swans eat flowers  
> baby, if swans ever ate flowers I would eat you like that for hours  
> …except when you’re sour  
> … and acting like a self-righteous grumpy old grump like you do sometimes  
> ‘cause those times you make me wanna run to the edge of the fucking world  
> and hurl myself into a black fucking hole and never come back ever
> 
> and then there are the times I wanna be with you forever

Snow piles up on the rooftops and apartment stoops of Brooklyn as Bucky shuffles into their shared apartment.

In it, there's a constant draft, the water is almost always cold, there are no windows and they have to share a bathroom with neighbors but Steve is there. Bucky would live in a tent on the streets if he had to, as long as he had Steve they'd make do. On this day, the holes in his gloves and the thin jacket he's wearing is not enough. Thankfully he'd been able to beg his way out of overtime with excuses about an elderly neighbor who had no one to care for her and was dangerously ill. No one gives a damn about a perpetually under the weather, skinny as a rail blonde with slender fingers that wrap around a pencil just right. They don't care that his chest rattles when he breathes or how he wakes up coughing blood onto their covers. It's a damn shame.

With frozen fingers, he slips a key into the lock and closes the door against the chilly communal hallway. His hands are full with two paper bags stocked with dry noodles, two glass jars of Mrs. Winston's homemade chicken broth, a box of tea, a loaf of bread from Mr. Asley two doors down and the chocolate bar the pharmacist had tossed in with a wink. Whether he wants to believe it or not, Steve is well loved.

 

Bucky begins to unpack the bags and place items on what little kitchen counter space they have. "Steve? I'm home. You won't believe what Mrs. Beatrice at the pharmacy sent you. She says for you to stay off your feet-"

He's interrupted by a loud thump coming from the bedroom. With his heart racing, he drops the chocolate bar and makes his way there. God, he hates Winter. Hates the snow and ice, the lack of insulation, the scratchy blankets that don't hold in much heat, hates leaving Steve by himself when he has to leave for work. It's not that he's a child. He can and does take care of himself but Bucky is pushy as hell and his idea of love is shoving Steve into four layers of socks and three shirts. He doesn't give Steve a say so in the matter. If he did, Steve would spend his entire life in the hospital.

When he opens the door, Steve gives him a weak smile. He's partially holding onto a bed that was certainly _not_ made up this morning when Bucky left, and has the other hand on the floor.  He takes him by the hand and roughly tugs him up. "Don't even look at me like that, Steve. The doctor told you to rest and last I checked, cleaning wasn't considered relaxing."

Steve stands and nearly topples over. "Last _I_ checked, he didn't put you in charge. I can take care of myself."

"Oh yeah? Let go of the bed then."

Steve white knuckles the covers and glares. Yeah, that's what Bucky thought.

"In bed, now. I'm making soup."

Steve huffs like a scorned child but curls up on the bed anyway and stuffs Bucky's pillow under his head. He can steal every measly blanket and pillow they have lying around, hell he can take the tablecloth if he wants, as long as he stays put.

 

The kitchen smells of herbs and broth simmering with bits of chicken, it's beginning to heat up slightly. Bucky is stirring the pot of food when he feels eyes on him. He turns to see Steve standing there with dark circles under his eyes and two blankets wrapped around his body. Sure, it's warmer in the kitchen but also humid and the last thing Steve needs is to get sweaty.

Bucky places the wooden spoon on the kitchen counter, takes a deep breath and lets go.

"Get your ass back in bed, you son of a bitch, and eat some chicken soup."

He's exhausted and hasn't had a chance to sit down, his socks are still damp from boots that barely keep out the moisture and they're _not_ having this argument again. He didn't come home early just to watch Steve slowly get worse.

Steve blinks, registering, and then his eyes flash with anger. "It's not even done yet."

"Steve," Bucky warns. The soup begins to boil slowly at first and soon enough it will arrive at a rolling boil and Bucky will need to adjust the heat.

"It's warm in here," Steve counters.

"I _know_ , that's why you shouldn't be in here. Now, go."

Steve hugs the blankets closer and squares his shoulders.

Okay, if he's not going to budge then it's time for drastic measures. Bucky turns the stove down slightly and wraps his arms around Steve, who is too weak to protest being carried like a bride. Steve would make a terrible bride, Bucky thinks. Unfortunately for both of them, his brand of ridiculous is exactly what Bucky wants and needs. He gingerly dumps Steve onto the bed and tugs the covers all the way up to his chin.

His hand is on the doorknob when Steve decides to speak, weakly. "Hey, come back here."

 

Bucky does not have time for this. The soup needs tending, there are at least four pairs of socks that need sewn, he needs to change into some warmer clothes and a book would suit perfectly on such a snowy day. Even still, he turns. "Why?"

Steve's teeth chatter and he knows Bucky can't walk away with him shivering like this.

"Be right back," Bucky says. He stirs the food and turns it down as low as it'll go before retreating to the bedroom with a book under his arm. He needs to rest anyway and that's the only reason he's climbing under the covers and taking Steve in his arms. He reaches down and peels off the damp socks as the book tumbles to the floor, forgotten.

Steve sighs, happily. He's still shivering but not it isn't as bad as it had been five minutes ago. His back presses against the sturdy wall of Bucky's chest as he burrows in deeper, closer.

"Hope you like burned soup," Bucky murmurs as he tucks his head in the slope of Steve's shoulder and neck. The body needs food as well as sleep and Steve needs to get better. He can't take a chance on ruining the food. Besides that, they're broke until payday. If it burns then they'll have no choice but to survive on bread and weak tea.

" 's good," Steve murmurs.

"You must be sicker than I thought, pal."

Steve flips over until he's curled up against Bucky's chest. "You smell good."

It's things like this that make their shabby tenement apartment _home._ He hates it when Steve is under the weather but it does have its perks. When he's feeling ill, he meanders over to Bucky's side of the bed as they sleep and wake up tangled together. During the day, however, he pushes himself too hard and dislikes being doted on but Bucky does it anyway. If he doesn't want to be touched, Bucky respects that. If he's simply being moody and nothing else, Bucky takes him by the hand and pulls him toward the bed and Steve sketches while Bucky reads. This means Wednesday's are his favorite day of the week; they're one of two days off and, though he'd rather go out dancing, he lazes around the apartment with Steve.

He lightly kisses Steve's forehead. "I smell like a kitchen."

" 's okay, I like it. You should make soup everyday."

"There's one problem with that," Bucky murmurs as he cards his fingers through hair that could certainly benefit from a nice scrub.

"Hmm?"

"You'd have to actually eat it."

Steve groans. "I'm not hungry."

"That's good 'cause I'm not offering right now, it's still cooking. The recipe said to let it simmer for 30 minutes."

"Y'should do this more often," Steve mumbles.

"Cook?"

Steve shakes his head no and buries his cold nose in Bucky's shirt. "No, _this_."

Bucky laughs, "I would if you'd let me."

He's not the problem here. If anything, he _craves_ physical affection whereas Steve doesn't fight it but rarely initiates. When they were children, the grandmotherly types of their neighborhood would shake their heads and cluck their tongues. Boys are meant to play games in the street and get scrapes, they're supposed to settle down with a wife and children when they're old enough, they're supposed to court girls. It's fine and dandy if they cling to one another, provided they don't shut everyone else out. Bucky had never let it get under his skin though. If anything he'd skipped to the other end of the spectrum and encouraged it. He'd even concocted situations that easily made excuses for touching the edge of Steve's skin. It's a craving that settled in his blood at the age of fourteen when he'd kissed a girl for the first time and found himself thinking of his best friend instead.

And now?

Best friends kiss, they share a bed, they sleep in thin t-shirts and boxers in the Summer. They blow rent money on medication and hospital visits. They follow one another everywhere and even on dates.

Only, they don't. Bucky has known this for ages but Steve doesn't seem to mind and what they have is working. They were sixteen when he worked up the nerve to kiss Steve underneath the boardwalk at Coney. Steve had given him the silent treatment for three solid days afterward. After the awkward encounter had passed and he'd had time to make sense of it he'd spent the night on couch cushions on the floor of Bucky's bedroom. On pure impulse Steve had woke him in the middle of the night with warm lips pressed to Bucky's. From that point on, they'd only grown closer. Bucky isn't sure what label would fit whatever they are but maybe that's a good thing. Good things don't need a definition to feel like they're meant to happen.

 

Steve gets a leg around Bucky's and drags him closer. "Come'ere."

"Hate to break it t'you but I'm about as close as I can get without layin' on you."

That's another Thing. Steve had broken that barrier himself when they were seventeen and they'd been going strong since. Bucky likes dames, don't get him wrong. They smell good, they're curvy and soft under his palms, they're beautiful. But they're not _Steve._ They don't make him want to be a better person or work harder, they don't make his blood boil over a small stupid argument, they don't push him away and reach for him at the same time. They're not walking contradictions. That's Steve's job and he does it well.

"Y'said thirty minutes, right?"

"Steve...you're sick, we can't..."

"I'm in bed, I'm resting. That's what'ya wanted wasn't it?"

"Resting, Steve. _Sleeping,_ reading, sketching; things that don't require moving much."

Steve soldiers on and begins to trail kisses along the side of Bucky's neck and it's all he can do to nudge him off. Steve's skin is hot to the touch and it'd feel amazing under Bucky but now is not the time.

"When you get better, I promise. 'kay?"

Steve huffs. "You're not gonna catch what I've got, Buck."

Bucky presses the back of his hand to Steve's forehead and sure enough it's warm. He peels off the covers and locates two pairs of socks. "I'm gonna see if Mr. Hillock has a bottle of aspirin. Don't you dare get outta this bed."

In his absence, Steve groans and gropes the empty space. " 'mm fine."

"No you're not. I won't be gone long." He nearly topples back onto the bed when he gives Steve a farewell kiss that quickly turns heated. If Steve keeps this up he'll never get better.

"Buuuucky."

He reaches out for more as Bucky takes a step back. "Nuh-uh. I'm not fallin' for that again. I'll be back."

"But I'm sick, Buck. I need you."

He tucks a hat onto his head and laughs. "I'm pretty sure no doctor worth his weight in salt would prescribe _that_ for recovering."

He leaves Steve mumbling and curled up with both of their pillows.

 

It takes approximately two very long weeks (and extra chocolate bars from the pharmacist when she hears that Steve is under the weather again) for Steve to be on the mend. It's an agonizing wait filled with prying Steve's wandering hands at night and reminding him to take an aspirin when he needs it.

It's early on a Wednesday night with snow softly kissing the ground when Bucky makes good on that promise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> title and beginning note is from "love poem" by the best poet in the entire world: andrea gibson. you can read it here: http://ohandreagibson.tumblr.com/lovepoem
> 
> also I started on a natsharon fic and got distracted so here I am
> 
> inspired by http://givemebackmybucky.tumblr.com/post/149740018752/pilgrimkitty-givemebackmybucky-bucky-trying


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